


Such Dangerous Things

by Kyra_Bane



Series: Kinktober 2020 [The Old Guard] [10]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, Introspection, Kinktober, Kinktober 2020, Knifeplay, POV Quynh, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Canon, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:13:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26978650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyra_Bane/pseuds/Kyra_Bane
Summary: Quynh's never been worshipped like a god. She's never had an interest in it. Until she met Andromache - and Andromache shows her, every night, what that could be like.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko
Series: Kinktober 2020 [The Old Guard] [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1930153
Comments: 5
Kudos: 68





	Such Dangerous Things

**Author's Note:**

> kinktober prompt 9 - sensations in the dark
> 
> pairing/prompt requested by [bronzestardust](bronzestardust.tumblr.com)
> 
> uhhhh i'm not sure why this went the way it did but yeah, okay 😅

Quynh’s never been worshipped like a god, but sometimes, she thinks she understands what it’s like.

There’s a headiness when Andromache tips her onto her back, spare clothing or bedding or just her hands, there, to cushion the fall. The knowledge that she could do _anything,_ no matter how base or cruel, and that light would still shine in Andromache’s eyes, a keen desire to serve.

Andromache has been worshipped like a god. Several times over, by now. She knows that rush, Quynh thinks; Andromache could go now, even, anywhere, and they would be wrapped around her finger in moments, she could take her pick of the women, the men, have them kneel at her feet and shower her with compliments and, and…

Her toes curl. Andromache kisses down her thigh, licks a wet stripe that cools in the night air. Quynh can barely see her. The moon is hidden, tonight, and the stars are weak, but she feels Andromache’s teeth on her – just a scrape – and arches up into the touch.

“I want you,” she whispers and it is so silent around them that she can hear the ragged hint of Andromache’s breathing. Fingertips patter down her bare legs and she shivers.

Andromache has told her what it’s like, of course, to be worshipped. Quynh had laughed the first time – it was not long after they first met, and she had told Andromache she would never fall to her knees like that for anyone; Andromache had looked at her with surprisingly soft eyes and said, “Of course not.”

They had fought a hundred battles in between, those looks growing in intensity, until Quynh, ever impatient, could take it no longer, had deposited herself in Andromache’s lap and taken her mouth. Andromache had surrendered into it, gone lax under her hands and Quynh knew, then, some of how it felt. 

She worries, sometimes, that her love is too sharp, all jagged edges that are designed to _hurt_ because all she has known is hurt, but the only time she told Andromache that, her reply had been that maybe that was why Andromache herself had been left to walk the earth this way. That Quynh’s love was designed to hurt, perhaps, but Andromache heals, comes back from anything, and maybe she walked alone for so long because she had to prepare herself for her supplication.

Quynh has not brought it up again. Sometimes she remembers it and cries. Sometimes she remembers it and trips Andromache onto the nearest bed, rug, patch of grass, and does her best to show her that it does not always hurt, not anymore.

Now, Andromache licks over her, aim unerring even in the dark, and Quynh shudders and sighs as she comes back to herself. Her love has a single-minded intensity when it comes to battle, to worship – the two are intertwined, for her, with her rebirth in blood and war – and she utilises every second of experience now, licking Quynh open until she is begging for her, aching for her fingers, and when Andromache slides one in, then two, the stars flare brighter above her.

Quynh slides her hands down, over her own breasts, nipples pebbled underneath her calloused fingertips, and then down further until she gets one hand in Andromache’s hair. Every so often, Andromache pulls back to breathe and Quynh can picture the way she looks, curled like a big cat ready to pounce, face shiny and slick, fingers sliding in and out…

She slides a third in and Quynh groans, tightens her hand in Andromache’s hair. Andromache gets the hint; her tongue is back on Quynh’s clit, flicking over and over the way she likes, because her love is nothing if not a good study, and Quynh has never wanted anyone more than this woman – even if neither of them were immortal, she cannot imagine she would have been satisfied with anyone else.

Andromache pulls back again as Quynh’s back arches, her other hand rubbing circles over Quynh’s clit, almost _too much,_ and she whimpers as she comes, the pleasure curling through her body, warming her from the inside out. 

She knows Andromache wants to go again; it’s obvious from the way she mouths at Quynh’s thigh, but Quynh shifts her hips and she removes her fingers. She kisses a trail up Quynh’s torso, captures her mouth, and that’s when Quynh pulls the knife from under their hastily dropped pile of clothes and twists them over.

Andromache lands on her back, Quynh’s knife at her throat, and Quynh can’t quite see her expression, but she feels she is relaxed.

“Going to kill me, my love? I’m not sure it’ll take.”

Quynh laughs, bright and free, because she loves _this,_ too, that she knows no other woman who would make jokes with a knife to her throat – again, immortality aside. 

“Of course not,” she chides, because it would be a waste. She trails the knife down Andromache’s throat and hears her breath hitch. The darkness is not something she has to worry about; she knows her knives like they’re her hands, her fingers. 

Andromache trusts her, as well – or at least trusts her body will heal, should Quynh actually decide to carve into her – for there is not a moment where she shies away from the blade. Quynh slides it over her breast, taps the flat of it to one nipple just to hear Andromache gasp. She replaces the blade with her lips, her tongue, and Andromache sighs up at the sky, but she does not move to touch.

Good. If this is what she chooses to give then, tonight, Quynh wants to give it freely, without interruption. She knows if Andromache dislikes anything, she will tell her. 

The knife travels over Andromache’s ribs, down the curve of her hip, and only once does Andromache twitch, then hiss. Quynh lowers her head, licks until she tastes blood and finds the wound is already healed. She bites her way lower down, until she can smell Andromache’s arousal, and lets out a heavy breath against her just to hear her moan.

“Quynh,” Andromache says, her voice almost broken, and Quynh delights at the sound, a dark little pleasure thrumming through her veins.

She turns the knife in her hand and, hilt first, slides it along Andromache’s folds. It is metal, smooth, and warmed from the heat of Quynh’s skin. Andromache groans at the sensation – then groans again when Quynh follows the path with her tongue.

Quynh repeats the action again, and again, until Andromache is rolling her hips, begging her for something deeper. She shoulders Andromache’s thighs apart, thrusts her tongue in deep. She can only know how _she_ feels, in this situation, when she’s aching for her lover to fill her, aching somewhere deep inside, but she thinks it’s the same as Andromache, now, from the way she curses when Quynh pulls back, replacing her tongue with two fingers.

She spins the knife around in her free hand, a safe distance from both of their bodies. She has an idea, a filthy, depraved thing that she thinks Andromache might like. Quynh withdraws her fingers, sucks them clean loudly enough that she knows Andromache can hear exactly what she’s doing, and then presses the hilt of the knife against Andromache’s fluttering hole.

“Tell me,” she says, she _commands,_ because she has the power to give this, if Andromache asks.

“Yes,” Andromache says, sighs, and Quynh pushes the knife hilt in so, so slowly. It isn’t especially long, or thick, and she’s terribly aware of all the ways this could go wrong, but Andromache whines when Quynh starts rubbing her clit, thrusting the knife hilt in and out. 

Andromache rocks back to meet each thrust, her thighs trembling – Quynh can feel her left, where she’s kneeling and it’s pressed up against her hip – and when Quynh knows Andromache’s close, when she curses every way she knows how, she tosses the knife aside and buries her face down there again.

She loves the feeling of Andromache coming apart on her tongue and tonight is no different; she grinds against Quynh’s face and Quynh laps up all that she can, doesn’t care about the slick wetness on her cheeks and chin, and when she digs her nails into Andromache’s thighs, Andromache comes, her body taut like a bowstring before she collapses back onto the ground.

Quynh still licks her, tiny kitten licks against her clit, until Andromache makes a disgruntled noise and shifts her hips away. Quynh laughs and climbs up next to her, kisses her jaw, her cheek, her lips.

“I did not expect that,” Andromache says when they part. Quynh teases her nipple and she exhales shakily, still sensitive.

“I thought it might be fun,” Quynh replies. “You did say you liked how dangerous I was.”

“I said I _love_ how dangerous you are,” Andromache says. “And I love your clever mind even more.” 

Quynh hums as Andromache hitches a leg over her hip, as she presses lazy kisses to her throat. Their love is a dangerous thing – they are two dangerous things – but Quynh knows danger better than she knows anything else and it means she’s never felt as at home as in this woman’s arms.


End file.
